The Art of Pessimism

Introduction

I used to sit at my window and watch my mother out in the gardens when I was little. Our gardens were filled with white rose hedges in huge formations. There wasn’t much to see out there. Just white rose hedges and dirt paths. Until my mother changed that. 

Every saturday morning, she would appear in the gardens at exactly 10:02, hauling paint buckets and paintbrushes outside along the dirt paths. Of course, I didn’t know what she was doing until I asked her. Instead of giving me a straight answer, she took me outside with her. 

Turns out, she was painting the roses. In each bucket was a different shade of pink paint. My mother would paint each rose a different shade while I watched from my place at her side. This went on until both of us were tired and worn out, hot and sweaty. We would both head back inside and my father, the king, would ask us why we were so dirty. 

My mother never told him. She just smiled slyly at me and walked away while I would join my brothers in their games. 

Now I sit at my window and look out at the gardens. No mother ever appears at 10:02 anymore. There isn’t any mother of mine to appear at 10:02. Half of the roses in the gardens are pink and the other half are white. 

Once my mother passed away, no one went into the gardens anymore. Not even I could find it in me to finish the task. Painting white roses pink was my mother’s job, not mine. It wouldn’t be the same.